And then 1985 Turned Itself Inside Out

What is startling at first glance is not that I have several fewer inches of hair or that what is left shines with a lustrosity reserved for those who have had their scalps massaged and conditioned with essential oils. What becomes obvious in an instant is this: my hair is its natural colour, entirely, for the first time in a long time.

Sadly I did not think to take a “before” picture this morning. But here is one from the other day, my hair worn as my hair has been worn since Trombone gained control of his grabby, drooly little fists. Up. Mostly. Except for the pieces that are down.

See at the back there, the part that looks like a Halloween wreath (if there were such a thing)? Miles of it. Acres of straw-like, orange hair. This is one of the last pictures of me with my hair down, taken at 39 weeks pregnant.

Since then, despite the shedding, it has looked much like it does above except even longer and the ends not so bouncy but more like the skin of a very old woman who has spent a lot of her long life sunning herself, smoking cigarettes and not drinking enough water.

Then the nice woman with the piercings had her way with it while we talked about fertility and being only children. (she is also not spoiled.) And now, it’s shorter, yes,

so when it goes up, it stays up

…and I didn’t have to make a heart and bank-rending decision – to colour or not to colour. Because when she cut off all the straw, voila, I had an all-new hair colour instantaneously:

The salon served me a very nice latte. I did wait half an hour (it was an 11:00 appointment, so one might not want to take a lunch hour getting her hair cut here) but I was amused through that wait by a) US Weekly. Did you know that x, y and z formerly pregnant celebribabes lost 50, 60 and 45 lbs using JUST diet and exercise? (oh, and by having their babies…) Allegedly, Katie Holmes does 200 situps a day. and b) a mother and her teenage son discussing whether or not he should join the jazz band for grade 10 (next year) – she loudly and perkily expressing her support for this idea and he quietly and mutteringly telling her to go to hell.

On my way home I picked up lunch at the coffee shop next door to the salon. I have been meaning to go to this coffee shop for a while but it’s closed Mondays and for some reason this completely cripples me. I went in and surprised the man who was working there. He was reading a book. There were books everywhere – scattered on the tables for customers to read. And there was a reasonably big TV playing Martha Stewart’s talk show. Pictures on the wall – maybe 40 of them – of different people wearing the same pair of jewel-encrusted, horn-rimmed glasses. When asked, the man explained that if you come into the coffee shop on your birthday, you get to put on Grandma’s Glasses and have your picture taken for the wall.

It was like I’d been magically teletransported back to the West End!

Don’t ask about the food. I’m sure the coffee is lovely.

The things I learned on the Tyra Show today (and then the title of this post will make more sense.)

1. Tyra was mean in elementary school. Go on, contain your disbelief.
2. Diddy seriously needs to look into putting some of his billions of dollars into orthodontia.
3. It doesn’t matter how rich and famous you are, if you do an interview in black and white where the camera closes in on your face and you say things like, “Y’know I don’t really have any friends. I guess I don’t really know HOW,” you will come across as a death row inmate being interviewed for 20/20. Diddy. Just saying.
4. Tyra is intimidated by Diddy. Because she was mean to people in elementary school (I KNOW! What?) and then people were mean to her in high school, she is intimidated by cool, famous people. Diddy looked positively terrified by this piece of news. I think if he hadn’t been duct-taped to the couch, he would have run very far away from Tyra.
5. As evidenced by the drag-queeny Pussycat Doll who dueted with Diddy at the end of the show, the ’80s are back. She wore a purple Glad bag over LACE FOOTLESS TIGHTS and a pair of stiletto ankle boots.

Did you hear the part about the LACE FOOTLESS TIGHTS? I’m sure the good folk at Go Fug Yourself will expound on this to our greater amusement but I needed to put it out there. And not in an “everything old is hip again/let’s go get some!” way. In an “are you mounting an ironic Fame/Flashdance revue? no? Then I guess you don’t need lace footless tights, do you?” way.